


Three in the morning

by armyofbees



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Coda, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Metaphors, Post-Season/Series 12, So it's sad, a few others are mentioned in passing, but i had to throw my lot in with the angst train, i really don't know what to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 23:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10954542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armyofbees/pseuds/armyofbees
Summary: He still wakes up screaming. He still wakes up with a raw throat and an aching chest and a ribcage that feels too small for his body. He still wakes up with whiskey tears brimming in his eyes and heaven’s name on his lips and bile rising in his throat. He still wakes up with the image of broken wings burned into his eyes.





	Three in the morning

**Author's Note:**

> First work in this fandom, etc. etc., just had to write something because that finale killed me. So have this. Spoilers for season 12, and just generally sadness. Inspired by [The Night We Met](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KtlgYxa6BMU) by Lord Huron and [The Scientist](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W8KmhmpaKuk) by Coldplay. Enjoy!

He still wakes up screaming. He still wakes up with a raw throat and an aching chest and a ribcage that feels too small for his body. He still wakes up with whiskey tears brimming in his eyes and heaven’s name on his lips and bile rising in his throat. He still wakes up with the image of broken wings burned into his eyes.

 _Still_ might be a bit much—it hasn’t been very long, after all. No, that’s not right; it feels like eons. But every time he asks, Sam just tells him that it’s been a week, nine days, two weeks. Time moves too slowly for him. He’s wading through water. He’s wading through a tidal wave.

So _still_ is relative. It’s enough.

It’s always dark when he wakes up. It’s always dark anyway, because what’s the point of turning the lights on if you don’t plan on getting out of bed? His sleeping schedule’s been shot to hell—sometimes the clock says two and he doesn’t know if it means AM or PM.

When he wakes up this time, it’s three in the morning. He doesn’t wake up, not really, not yet. He lurches upwards, clawing at the blankets on his chest, ripping away the thin, thin, sheets that feel like anvils on his lungs. He’s barely got enough breath in his lungs to shout, _“Cas!”_ but he does.

After, he just sits for a while. After, he lets himself wake up for real. It doesn’t feel real, though, no matter how hard he tries. Nothing feels real, anymore, except the aching in his soul and the emptiness in the place where his heart should be.

He pushes the blankets off of his aching legs and tries to regain his breath. It doesn’t work very well—his weak attempts dissolve into soft, breathy sobs. He curls into himself, hugging his knees to his chest. His left leg still feels funny when he puts weight on it, but he hasn’t stood in days, so it might be better now. He’s not sure, though; it tingles when he touches it.

His throat still hurts and the only thing he’s drank in the last few days has been bourbon, but Sam left a glass of water on his nightstand, so he takes a drink. It’s only half full, so he slams the glass back down and slumps against the headboard of his bed.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and his whiskey tears are brimming again. “God _damn_ it, Cas.”

He’s shaking all over. He thinks it’s partially from the cold, but he knows that it’s mostly from the silent sobs wracking his body. He knows it’s because he’s lived off of whiskey for two weeks. He knows it’s because he’s so fucking _scared._

And now he’s said his name, and now it’s all real. It feels suddenly like he’s suffocating. It feels suddenly like there’s a crushing weight on his shoulders, like he’s Atlas and Castiel is—was—the world. Like Castiel’s _body_ is the world.

Before, it could be numbed. Before, it was buried under a haze of alcohol and sleep and incomprehension. Now, he’s sober. Now, he’s lucid. Now, _this is not a dream._

He can feel the tears flowing freely now, and _Goddamn it, why did this epiphany have to come at three in the morning?_ He is so, so isolated. He is so, so alone.

He can still see Cas’s body, still see those beautiful, broken wings scorched into the ground. He thinks the thing he hates most is that, eventually, the ground will change, and be walked on, and the scorch marks will disappear. He thinks the thing he hates the most is that he’s the only one who’ll remember. He thinks the thing he hates the most is that Castiel deserved the world, and instead he got a blade in his back and a chestful of heartbreak.

The worst part is, sometimes, he doesn’t wake up screaming. Sometimes, he wakes up, and nothing is different except for a hangover he doesn’t remember giving himself. Sometimes, everything is okay. Sometimes, he doesn’t remember, either.

And then everything will come crashing over him, and he’ll apologize. He’ll bury his face in a pillow and sob bitter nothings into the fabric, because _how could he ever forget? It’s his job now, his duty._ He has to remember.

It’s all he can do, after all.

He hates that, too. But God’s not here, and the angels are dead. And there’s no one to help them, so there’s nothing he can do. He’s fucking _useless,_ and he hasn’t felt this way since his dad died. Since Sam threw himself into Hell. Since Cas walked into a lake with no intention of coming back. Since he’d held a scythe to his brother’s head.

He wants to scream. But his throat is raw and his ribcage feels like it’s closing in on his lungs, and his breathing is too shallow to allow that kind of noise.

He convulses, throws himself outward, tries to make more room, tries to _breathe._ His breath is still ragged and his stomach is beginning to ache.

He sobs again, but his breath is too short to do anything properly, so he just whispers, “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.”

He’s struck suddenly by how Castiel looked when they first met, so young and new and untouched by the tornado that is _Dean._ How his eyes were bright with something akin to innocence, if that’s possible for an eons-old being. How he looked so beautiful with sparks showering around him and how fucking _terrified_ Dean was of this new, wonderful creature.

Tears are streaming down his face now, but he still can’t breathe. He’s still shaking, his ribcage is still too small, and it’s still three in the morning, and he’s still alone. “Oh, God, take me back to the start,” he hisses, hugging himself. When he had his mom, his dad, Bobby, Jo, Ellen. “Take me back to the night we met.” When he had hope, when he was so damn sure that they could win. “Just take it all back.” _Take me back to Cas._

But it’s three in the morning and he has whiskey tears staining his cheeks and heaven’s name on his lips and Sam’s asleep in the next room and God’s not here and he’s alone. It’s three in the morning and no one’s listening. It’s three in the morning, and nothing can change the knife in his angel’s back or the emptiness in his heart. It’s three in the morning, and the start’s just a memory.

It’s three in the morning, and Castiel is just a dream.


End file.
